The Preacher

I look out at the faces

filled with expectation

waiting to be fed

with the pitiful morsels

of what I say

not enough to fill

their empty hearts

as the world turns


of darkening forces

gathering on the horizon.

The nave feels empty

this cold, gray morning

few come to pray

fewer still just come.

What words do I say

to quell growing fear?

Quieting the angry voices

they hear each day.

My words feel leaden

filled with cliches

yet, I stand before them

a lone figure

a final sentinel

standing on the brink 

guarding the path

pointing to the light.